


Changeling

by Anorkie



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Reality, Domestic, M/M, Memory Loss, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 21:37:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10227989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anorkie/pseuds/Anorkie
Summary: Shiro finds himself in a reality where the Kerberos misson was a success.This should make him happy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by misterpoofofficial's artwork: http://misterpoofofficial.tumblr.com/post/156255822108/quotidiandreams-so-um-you-said-shiro-ending-up-in

There is nothing peculiar about tonight. Already, it has the telltale signs of a typical restless night for Shiro including, but not limited to: jittery limbs, a clenched jaw, and a headache that harrases his temples before bursting behind his eyelids. Stars collide in the darkness until he pries his eyes open to reveal what should be an equally dark room. His vision soaks up the blurred edges of a body that soon becomes clear. Drenched in moonlight and softened by sleep, Keith’s body bleeds into Shiro’s; their legs are tangled, Shiro languidly notes, and the mere inches that separate their hands suggest they were once clasped with promise.

Keith drifting into Shiro’s bedroom is not uncommon. Sometimes, the younger man’s presence comes announced and others times not; either way, it is never unwelcome. Even in-between missions when Shiro isolates himself to slip off the mask of Absolute Control and Solutions In Spades, to permit himself the breakdowns that must not be witnessed by his team, Keith’s company is encouraged. Allowing Keith to be present during one of his episodes for the first time had been terrifying. The last thing Shiro wanted to do was smear the image of himself Keith remembered before Kerberos, but the canvas was still wet with their reunion; the colors were bound to mix into an ugly brown and the shapes would become indistinguishable, leaving Shiro with something that could only be displayed with shame. Instead of being pushed away, he was pulled closer. It was all he could ask for.

Shiro is slow to untangle himself from Keith on account of exhaustion and an unwillingness to wake his boyfriend. His legs wobble when he stands and where he expects thin air, there is a wall. Confused by the layout he swore he memorized by now, he blindly gropes until there is a doorknob. The shape and texture - both something he hasn't felt in a long time - are startling, and he exerts a tiresome amount of concentration just to turn it.

The room fails to illuminate when he steps inside. That's never happened before. He briefly wonders if something is wrong with the Castle, if some kind of danger has compromised their energy source; however, his hand goes on autopilot and searches for something as foreign as the doorknob. His fingers hit a light switch, immediately drenching his body in a yellow glow that paints a disquieting reflection in the mirror.

The Shiro staring back at him is not him. This Shiro sports an identical haircut, but the hairs sprouting from his scalp in messy waves are inky black. These facial features lack any signs of premature aging, like the fine lines that mar his own forehead. This body isn't made up of bulging muscles; rather, a modest build that couldn't muster the strength to overcome anything twice its size. The jagged scar that splits his face across the middle does not exist. Instead of knotted pink, there is smooth skin that blends seemingless with the rest - everywhere. That blade that almost gut him in the arena, those teeth that reduced his left thigh to ribbons, the spewing acid from an opponent's mouth that managed to dribble onto his chest as he tore its jaws apart - the wounds they inflicted are gone. Not healed to faint marks, just gone. Like they never existed.

The biggest difference between this Shiro and him is the very human, very not metal right arm. This one alteration terrifies him more than any of the others combined. When he finally gains the courage to touch it, he snaps his opposing hand away upon contact, as if organic limbs have the ability to burn the way his prosthetic can.

He reexamines the reflection before deciding it is a product of restlessness coupled with the hallucinations he sometimes suffers from. No matter how real it all seems, it all _feels_ , it isn't. The straining light bulb shines light into the conjoining room, and it is this sight that stops him from crawling back into bed as quick as humanly possible. This is not the bedroom Allura assigned to him on that first night in the Castle. This is not any room in the Castle. Couldn't be.

Some abandoned part of Shiro, buried underneath the coming and going of days that blurred into months that turned into a full year, remembers this place. The centerpiece of the room, a low-rise table, rests unevenly on cinder blocks. A cabinet tucked in a corner is overflowing with things indistinguishable in the dark, but he recalls collections of electronics, turntables, and records. A makeshift shelf holds books that rarely have their spines rubbed. Waving daintily over a window, the only window, a thin white sheet dulls the intensity of the moonlight. Resting on a pulled out futon is Keith, submerged in layers of blankets that cloak all but his mound of dark hair. He must have moved since Shiro got up, but this detail hardly seems important among everything else.

Shiro looks over his shoulder to confirm the overall appearance of the bathroom, which is just like it was. His reflection catches him in the mirror again. Nothing has changed, but everything is different. He stumbles out of the bathroom with the enthusiasm of a zombie, wide-eyed and stiff. This is all imagery retrieved from his own mind; this has to be a hallucination that begins harmless and transforms into a horror movie of his own twisted design. Self-sabotage, coping, both, or neither. He can't rule out the possibility of this being the result of some magic or infection, either. He remembers the crystal Sendak lugged onto the ship, and how it showcased an entire conversation that never happened - probably. He isn't sure.

He's trying to retrace his steps, recall settling into bed with Keith, revisit the details of the previous day, but he can't. As if punishing him for even trying, his headache pounds louder against his skull.

The most sensible, high-functioning part of his brain demands he shake Keith awake to test the authenticity of the whatever-this-is. Confrontation scares him, though. Interacting with the only thing that _should_ be able to talk is a gateway to the unknown. What if speaking to this phantom Keith escalates into something disturbing? What if this is just one level of a nightmare he's doomed to sink deeper into?

Feeling unable to go anywhere else, he opens the front door to reveal an expansive desert that glows a pale blue underneath the sky. A gust of wind encompasses him, whispers for him to tread further, and he does. The sand feels cool underneath his feet, and he is unable to recall the last time such a sensation occurred to him. Despite the inability to secure a time and place, there is familiarity. The moon hanging heavy in the starlit sky is familiar, too. It is his guide in his otherwise aimless journey across the desert.

He ignores the strain of his tired legs as he walks for what must be hours. The scenery never changes; it is an endless mound of sand that seems to melt under his heavy footsteps. The moon remains as alluring and bright as ever. Wind reels him in further and, this time, he can feel his skin rise with bumps. It's too real.

“Shiro?”

A voice stops him in his tracks. Suddenly, he is hyper aware of his sweat-coated body and the particles of sand that fight for dominance over his pores. His mouth feels gritty and the tongue inside of it dry. Wetting his cracked lips is pointless but he tries anyway. When he peeks over his shoulder, there is Keith, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a hastily thrown-on cardigan that contributes to his panicked stance. He is drowning in the heavy garment, but the way it drapes over his arms reminds Shiro of wings. Curious, how an illusion would even bother to add a detail like that - the cardigan. Even more curious: the cabin is behind Keith, within sight, maybe only a few dozen yards away.

“Shiro, why are you out here? What's wrong?” He sounds breathless, like he just finished darting through the cabin before stumbling outside. That is how Shiro imagines it happened, anyway - if any of it was even real. He wonders how much longer the illusion will drag on.

Another question means another step closer, closer until Keith is maybe a foot or two away. Either way, he's too close and Shiro jolts in response, catching himself on his hands and knees when his flight reaction fails miserably. Keith appears by his side in an instant, hands eager to help, but Shiro twists his body to avoid contact. The blatant rejection makes Keith's nostrils flare and fingers curl in on themselves. He tries again. Shiro's body contorts awkwardly as his muscles argue with each other, unsure whether to flee or lean submissively into Keith's desperate grip. He ends up on his side, knees drawn to his face and knuckles pressed to his temples. There is nothing behind his eyelids but darkness. Keith makes a frustrated noise and Shiro forces himself to concentrate on his breathing. He should be waking up or snapping out of this soon. It's only a matter of time.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Keith’s words are accompanied by a wet, helpless laugh. Shiro can feel the heat of the younger man's fingertips vibrating over his arm. His ears start ringing.

He knows none of this is real, it can't be, because his body should reflect the damage done by the Galra Empire and his feet only reunited with Earth for mere hours before becoming reacquainted with alien metals. The sand sticking to his clammy skin upon contact tells him otherwise. The fingers cautiously gliding along his shoulder belong to Keith - _his_ Keith, the hot-headed pilot of the Red Lion and the only person he will ever feel comfortable murmuring his secrets to in between feverish kisses. Keith covers Shiro's hand with his own. He feels too real.

“Babe, talk to me. Please.”

There is something in Keith's tone - scared, he sounds scared - that compels Shiro to pry his eyes open. Keith's eyes are remarkably violet and blown wide enough to take the place of a star.

“Are you real?”

The question tumbles out of his mouth before he can cover it up. Still, he's uncertain if he actually said it until Keith's expression changes for the worst.

“Why would you ask that?” Keith rasps. His fingers feel lighter, somehow.

Shiro mirrors the naked confusion on Keith's face - spares himself the devastation Keith wears so clearly - and swallows a lump forming in his throat. He wasn't expecting a legitimate response but now he has more questions.

“Where am I?” He knows where he is. He knows exactly where this place is. He just needs someone to say it, to solidify his location, to acknowledge the absurdity of his presence in a place so far away. That, or to entice the illusion to reveal a new layer.

Overcome with emotion, Keith presses a hand to his mouth to mute a shaky exhale. He _clenches_ Shiro's hand as his shoulders bob in time with several harsh gasps. Shiro is merely a bystander to Keith's crumbling demeanor, too disoriented to feign concern. He numbly cranes his head to watch tears tease the younger man's bright eyes. Something like guilt pangs with every beat of his heart, scolding him for his behavior.

“Do you remember who I am?” Keith manages between a reluctant sob. There is panic in his eyes, threaded in his downcast brows, and tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Of course,” Shiro says like it's the most natural thing.

A cry bubbles from Keith's throat and suddenly Shiro is being pulled into a pair of trembling arms. He doesn't resist, doesn't find a reason to, because as Keith's heavy breath and garment surround him, the reality of the situation becomes terrifyingly clear: this is reality. Somehow, Shiro's body has been spared its deformities and he is on Earth with Keith. It's almost as if…

He remembers Slav proclaiming the possibility of numerous realities and their often grim outcomes. He remembers dismissing the strange little man’s theories because they were as ridiculous as he is.

Why can't Shiro remember anything past waking up here?

Keith’s voice and hands guide Shiro to the futon. With the lights on, he can survey the details of the cabin easily: there are modest layers of dust covering the collection of electronics tucked away, and the makeshift coffee table is stained with encrusted, syrupy semi-circles. Beside the futon, there is a lopsided stack of folded clothes on the verge of collapsing. A small whiteboard stares at him from across the room with chores and reminders scribbled in black marker; foreign responsibilities, all impossibly mundane, in his handwriting. Wrinkled birthday cards, phone numbers scrawled on scrap paper, and brightly printed photographs outline the whiteboard. A word is on the tip of his tongue, and he finds it when Keith returns from the kitchen with two steaming mugs: domestic.

Keith is still shaking, Shiro realizes, and the steeping liquids momentarily escape their confines when set down on the table. Keith curses under his breath, flicks his fingers dry, and sits beside Shiro on the futon. Noticing Shiro's disinterest, Keith moves one of the cups closer to him, distinguishing it as his. Unlike the other, a drenched string and tab hang over the edge.

Shiro can hear Keith swallow, unsure of what to say. The wind brushing the windows surpasses the silence hanging between them and poses an opportunity to speak.

“What happened?” Keith asks with eyes eager to meet Shiro's gaze. The calm of his voice betrays every other part of him, still struggling to simmer down. Shiro feels his chest rise with apprehension. He's filled with it.

What a question.

“You would never believe me,” Shiro says in defense.

Keith situates himself in a more comfortable position and folds his arms. In the midst of the motion, Shiro notices another detail: a silver band wrapped around Keith's ring finger.

Shiro recalls a conversation with (his) Keith that ended in lukewarm kisses and a firm declaration that they didn't need to be married to make anything official. Still, Keith settled on referring to Shiro as his boyfriend in tight company. That was the furthest they ever pushed labels.

But now, this Keith dons the impossible and is challenging Shiro with a “try me” that manages to be mindful. A similar band, strikingly gold, encompasses Shiro's ring finger. Acknowledging it leaves him feeling giddy but, more than anything else, accountable for a version of a relationship that may not - no, doesn't - belong to him.

The Keith he knows would be onboard with any apocalyptic scenario with little convincing. The Keith he knows would shred stacks of dated newspapers if it meant resurfacing something he could add to his corkboard. There was a time where they would watch poorly made videos claiming evidence of ghosts. Researching possessions, government conspiracies, and recurring anomalies appearing around the globe were pastimes for Keith. All in good fun.

Shiro can't imagine a version of Keith who would be skeptical of his story, but he may not have to. This could be the one.

“The Kerberos mission…” It seems like the best place to start because, really, Shiro's fate was sealed the moment he accepted his role as pilot.

Confusion paints Keith's features. Carefully, he says, “What about it?”

“The Holts and I, we never came back together.” Realizing how haunted he must sound, he adds, “The mission was a failure.”

Shiro's face is captured between Keith's open palms and redirected to encourage eye contact. The warmth radiating off of Keith's hands convince him into looking. Guilt reemerges from the depths of Shiro's stomach when he sees his apparent husband's expression. Keith nibbles on a lip twisted in disbelief.

“Takashi, you came home _months_ ago.”

This would be the perfect moment to faint. While different - more attractive, less vile - in appearance, his body continues to disappoint him in other ways. Instead of being granted the relief of unconsciousness, a desperate noise squirms in his mouth like a split worm on hot pavement. When it wiggles through his clenched teeth, he recognizes it as a sound reserved for his most private breakdowns. It echoes. When it reverberates in his eardrums, his chest swells with a dread that feels so palpable he struggles to breathe.

 _You came home_ is a concept he abandoned before and after his first fight in the arena. Huddled among similarly fashioned bodies in a cell, dizzy with exhaustion, those words were featured in a dangerous fantasy where he saw his mother again. After crash landing on Earth, they went from reality to afterthought thanks to things like the Blue Lion and destiny.

“Nothing bad happened,” Keith is saying but even he seems unsure, so invested in Shiro's reaction. “You came home safe, okay? You're right here. With me.”

“I don't know,” Shiro says. “I don't know.”

A reality where the Kerberos mission was a success, one where he did not endure the horrors of the arena, one where the fate of the universe does not rest on his shoulders, one where he married Keith and they live together seems unattainable. But here it is.

This should make him happy.

He should be happy.

He shrinks away from Keith's grasp and reaches for his mug. He can feel Keith's eyes on him as he takes slow, measured sips. Caffeine blooms beautifully behind his eyelids and adds a splash of color in the most oppressive regions of his brain. The sensation is over too quickly and not enough. The coffee sitting untouched in the other mug is tempting; his fingers itch for it.

Another bout of silence falls over them. Keith shifts. Shiro goes for the coffee without asking and downs it in several hard gulps. His eyes flicker to the younger man to see him pulling his hair into a ponytail, unbothered.

“Let’s say the Kerberos mission was a failure,” Keith says. His posture is tight. “What happened afterward?”

Shiro sucks on the inside of his cheek for the bitter residue of ground beans and swallows. Keith hasn’t completely dismissed him yet. There is still room for a conversation.

Shiro swallows again.

“Nothing,” he says.

He says this because refusing to openly acknowledge his other life will make things easier on...both of them. He still doesn't know who or what triggered his arrival and, though it terrifies him to consider the possibility, this may be a one-way trip. It would be wise to prepare for a lengthy stay, at the very least. Not scaring the absolute shit out of this version of Keith - if he hasn't already - might be a good place to start.

Just as Shiro is making peace with his decision, Keith is drawing his mouth into a thin, displeased line.

“You can't just,” Keith starts, mouth working ahead of his mind, and stumbles over his words until he settles with, “ _say_ something like that and leave me hanging. Tell me what's on your mind. Anything. Please, just talk to me.”

Keith's thigh rubs against Shiro's as he enters the other's space. His shoulders are slightly slouched in a way that could suggest defeat, but Keith will always be stubborn, Shiro begrudgingly notes. Under any other circumstance, this wouldn't be a problem.

“I'm having a hard time remembering anything after the mission,” Shiro offers in an attempt to sate the eternal fire that rumbles in Keith Kogane’s belly and hopes for the best. The results are instant.

“Oh.” Keith's mouth forms around the word but there is barely a noise.

There is a thoughtful pause before Keith runs his hand across Shiro's back and gently squeezes his hip. For the first time that night, Shiro feels his body relax.

“Well, you came back home and, uh, just took it easy while I finished out school,” Keith says through the dismay threatening to close his throat entirely.

Eyes distant, he absentmindedly massages small circles into Shiro's skin. Shiro busies his hands by tending to the small knots along Keith's spine, hoping not only to comfortably distract himself but the other man too. He just doesn't want to see Keith cry again.

“You proposed to me after graduation and I said yes. We got married. That was a month ago,” Keith says with a stiff shrug.

_You forgot about my graduation and our wedding. Whatever._

“I'm sorry,” Shiro says because he is. He is sorry.

Keith deflates against Shiro with a heavy sigh. Once again, Shiro is confronted with the authenticity of this person and comes up with the same response: it can't be Keith, but it feels exactly like Keith from the texture of his hair to the curves of his body. While his boyfriend - no, husband - presses a chaste kiss to his temple, mumbles how they should try to sleep, he is dizzy with the sensation of lips and the accidental brush of teeth. Identical.

Caught on sheets and each other, they fumble with pillows until finally settling on the futon. As soon as Shiro's back hits the poor excuse for a mattress, Keith is latching onto Shiro with a firm arm. A constant reminder of his presence. A barrier.

Sleep is nothing more than a bad joke at this point, but that doesn't stop Shiro's pitiful pursuit of it. His mind enters an inescapable state of restlessness, concocting foggy retellings of the night's events and seemingly unrelated conversations with his mother, Allura, and a third, strikingly maternal person he's sure he made up. There are brief moments of almost-consciousness between the murky imagery and spliced voices, where moving or speaking might be feasible with some effort. In these moments, he allows his cloudy eyes to drift throughout the room to reaffirm his location. It never changes. Another constant: Keith's eyes never leave him. Keith's blinking becomes slower, less controlled but persists into the new day.

Keith whispers something before Shiro plunges into another fit of turbulent sounds and colors.

His head doesn't hurt anymore.

 

Moons away, on another plane of reality, Keith finds himself drawn to the Black Lion and shrieks miserably in the seat he will soon have to lead from.


End file.
